Cataclysms
by Hoodoo
Summary: The team is passed being salvaged, and one of them is doing his best to just keep going.
1. Chapter 1

Standard disclaimer: no recognizable characters are mine.

Please thank and congratulate **danang1970** for this. With her encouragement, I succumbed to my natural inclinations of angst. Also, I'm feeling mean due to various, unrelated things going on in my life (being attacked by hornets twice this week, and gnashing my teeth during a stalemate regarding my brain absorbing new information). So here we are.

This, the end of the team as they know it, is the result. It is set in the future, and is not in anyway connected or has any continuity within the story arc I've posted on this site previously.

(For more to read, head on over to **danang1970**'s stuff on this website fanfiction (dot) net/u/2659383/danang1970. If you've not already read her works, shame on you. Now's your chance to be blinded by brilliance.)

Enjoy.

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><p>The smell made him sick. How's come all hospitals smelled the same—even the loony bins?<p>

B.A. signed the appropriate papers, made sure his visitor's badge was secure, and opened the inner door after the orderly buzzed it unlocked.

Now he was in the hospital proper. Either the antiseptic smell was diminishing, or his nose had grown accustomed to it. The people who lived or worked here probably never noticed it anymore.

Quickly he made his way through the hallways. He tried to ignore the nonsensical ramblings he overheard. He tried to pretend the moans from some of the rooms didn't freak him out. But deep down, he couldn't truly ignore or pretend, and he thought if _he_ were ever in a place like this as a "resident", he'd probably find a way to end his existance.

He stopped in front of door #42. There was a window in the door, but he thought it rude to peer in; even the 'lifers' here were people, right? They deserved some semblance of respect. He served and worked with this man for too many years and even though he routinely called him "crazy fool" to his face, he knew Murdock's capabilities. The ex-pilot may be clinically insane, but he was a good person.

B.A. squared his shoulders and knocked.

He waited. He knocked again.

A very faint shuffling came from the other side of the door.

"Murdock?" B.A. asked.

No response.

"Captain Murdock?" The nurse told him sometimes he reacted to the title.

The doorknob rattled, and the door opened.

Murdock stood to the side of the doorframe, looking out of his room warily.

"War," he whispered in horror, and shrunk back.

B.A. sighed, although quietly and mostly to himself. He'd also been warned that Murdock hadn't let go of that particular delusion, but man, he had _hoped._

"Can I come in?" Fool, he added silently.

"War is patient, War is kind. It does not envy or boast. It is not proud . . ." Murdock said with his eyes closed.

The verse parodied from Corinthians was creepy.

The black man sighed again and shook himself. He had promised Face he would do this.

Walking into the small room seemed to make Murdock less afraid of him. He straightened and watched B.A. keenly. B.A. noted there was no chair, so he stood by the bed.

He also saw Murdock was still in the hospital's soft, standard issue pajamas—the ones with no drawstrings in the pants! Only elastic waistbands!—instead of his street clothes. The orderlies were supposed to have made sure he was changed and ready to go.

What the hell.

"Murdock, man. It's good to see you." Making small talk with him wasn't as hard as pulling teeth, but almost. "How've you been?"

"Good, good. Sometimes the nurses forget and we get extra TV time in the rec room. They had to take the ping pong balls away—one guy kept trying to eat them. Thought they were eggs! So we have to make do with the ping pong balls in our minds.

"And you, my burly friend! World been treating you okay? Not taking any wooden nickels? No pookas trailing you?"

Scratch the Corinthians-parody creepiness. This, the almost normality of the conversation, was worse by far.

B.A. dismissed the questions. "Face asked me to come. He's . . . not doing so hot, Murdock, and he wanted to see you again."

Murdock's too bright eyes bore into him. "He couldn't come . . . here? To visit?"

"No," B.A. told him with a slow shake of his head. "He can't get up no more."

Murdock's eyes flicked from side to side as he processed the information.

"You're taking me out," he decided.

"Yeah. You 'n me, just like old times. I got a van. You gotta get dressed, though. You think you can handle that?"

"Out, beyond the walls. Beyond the reach of the jaws that bite, the claws that catch—beware the Jubjub bird and shun the fumious Bandersnatch—"

"Can you get dressed, man?"

Murdock cut himself off and saluted, then looked confused, as if somewhere passed the Jabberwock he remembered he shouldn't be saluting a subordinate officer. The befuddlement didn't last long however; he hurried to change into the clothes the orderlies had left out for him but hadn't advised they would be needed.

B.A. stepped out of the room to allow him some privacy.

"Where War goes, Death follows! When Famine calls, Death answers!" Murdock called to him. His voice alternated loud and muffled as shirts were pulled over his head. "Death will soon be ready!"


	2. Chapter 2

_small dedication insert here to shadowwalker213, who helps teach me how to spell. Thanks, muchacho!_

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><p>Finally presentable, Murdock was on his best behavior as B.A. signed a couple more documents and returned his badge. As they walked out the front door of the hospital, Murdock seemed to swell with the amount of air he took in, as if being locked inside compressed him. To B.A.'s surprise, he didn't run feral across the lawn.<p>

He directed Murdock to the parking lot and his van. Murdock was hesitant and confused at first, and insisted he wasn't getting in. B.A. finally dug the registration papers out of the glove box to prove that yes, even though this van wasn't _exactly_ like the one they used to drive around in, it was owned by B.A. Baracus.

B.A. finally managed to convince him it was not an imposter designed to steal him away to a secret government laboratory, or another planet, or under water, or any other fool thing.

Settled into the passenger seat, Murdock chewed fretfully at a fingernail. B.A. thought about telling him to stop, but knew whatever thoughts were now crowding the ex-pilot's mind were worrisome, and that he needed some release. Chewing fingernails was better than slamming his head against something.

As B.A. pulled into traffic, Murdock started a mumbling little Kookaburra song to himself as he stared out the side window. B.A. ignored it until Murdock swung around and looked wildly through the back of the vehicle.

"You've got the wrong van, Bosco!" he exclaimed. "Where's Face? Where's Hannibal?"

B.A. barely controlled a flinch. That question always caught him by surprise. He decided to take the queries in order. "It's the right van, Murdock. You saw the papers, man. We're going to visit Face. Remember?

"And Hannibal . . ." he said as evenly as he could manage, ". . . you know Hannibal ain't with us anymore."

Murdock stopped his visual search and turned to him. His fingernails were back in his mouth. "Colonel John Hannibal Smith?"

"There was only one," B.A. replied.

Murdock was silent, watching him expectantly. B.A. tried to keep his eyes on the road, but the scrutiny was too intense.

"Listen, man," he finally sighed. "If you want, we can swing by the cemetery on our way back."

Like water bursting from a dam (or a crazy fool getting slapped with reality, B.A. thought morosely), Murdock cried out and threw himself bodily against the door. He simultaneously tried to fold himself into the foot well and claw open the door handle, keening wordlessly all the while.

B.A. was never happier he'd modified the door and put child safety locks in place as he hastily pulled the van to the side of the road. He wasn't as happy with Murdock's reaction—he knew there were still triggers that set him off, but the therapy was supposed to be helping that! Face had shown him the progress reports!

"Hey! Hey!" he said loudly, over the caterwauling. "Murdock! You need to stop this right now! Faceman ain't gonna be happy to see you if you're all bloodied up!"

Actually, he couldn't allow Murdock in the room if he was actively bleeding.

Murdock paused a microsecond.

"You hear me? Face wants to see you, but if you keep this up, you can't."

Murdock watched him from the floor in front of the seat with wide eyes.

"Okay?" B.A. insisted. He held out his hand. "Come on, get back in the seat."

Murdock flicked his gaze to the big hand waiting to help him back up. Then he gingerly took it, and pulled heavily to lever himself back into the seat.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to . . . I just . . . just forgot about Hannibal."

How in the hell could he forget about Hannibal?


	3. Chapter 3

If B.A. could pinpoint the catalyst—and hindsight is 20/20, so he could—that last job with all four of them together was it.

It had gone pretty well, with only minor bumps in the plan. They'd gotten their evidence, had wrapped up the loose ends, and just needed to get the hell out of Dodge and back to the client to let him know that yes, his employee was stealing from the company and had set up a meth lab on the property.

There were no gunfights, no brawls, no Face faking his way into anything. No one had even been at the lab when they jimmied open the door. Standard operating procedure. Easy, almost.

They knew to be careful. All the components in a meth lab were pretty freaking unstable—B.A. had made the joke that Murdock oughtta feel right at home—and no one wanted to ruin their day with an explosion.

What they hadn't counted on one of the idiots involved in the lab also being a closet arsonist and budding terrorist with an unhealthy paranoia and the brains to set safe guards.

B.A. and Face had made it out to the van, laughing and coming up with ridiculous plans on how they'd be spending their share of the cash. Pharmaceutical companies had deep pockets! They were only blown forward off their feet to slam into the side of the vehicle as the bomb detonated.

Murdock and Hannibal were still inside the building.

Ears filled with ringing cotton, the two hurried as much as their disorientation would allow, trying to get back through the burning wreckage and find their teammates.

B.A. had felt bruised but didn't mention it at the time. Later, seeing the deepening purple marks across Face's shoulders and back, he realized he _was_ bruised; the concussive blast had damaged their skin and the muscles underneath.

None of that mattered for the moment. He also ignored the blood in his mouth from a bitten tongue and the aches in his shoulders as he pulled boards and drywall away during the search. His hands were cut and bloodied from shards of glass throughout the rubble. Face's were too, but neither of them stopped to find gloves.

They dug and shouted too loudly for Murdock and Hannibal. The building hadn't been that big, and some of it was still standing, albeit unsteadily. The smoke from the fires made them cough.

If they hadn't been coughing so much and if they weren't suffering the after-effects of the blast ringing through their ears, B.A. liked to think they would have found their teammates sooner. He liked to think if they had, something could have been done for Hannibal . . .

They found him under a section of the collapsed roof. It was almost too heavy and awkward to move, but through the pain he and Face heaved it together and forced it off and away.

Murdock was wrapped around his former CO, sobbing. He was literally soaked in blood—the bright red of oxygenated blood pumped out by a severed artery.

Hannibal was drenched too, but lay in the unnatural stillness of death.

Face stumbled forward in shock, startling Murdock as he tripped and put a hand down on the pilot to steady himself.

"Facey!" Murdock shrieked, an inhuman sound.

He reached out to clutch at Face, but still absorbing the situation made Face jerk back away from the dripping hand.

"It was a goddamn land mine, Facey!" Murdock sobbed.

Face attempted to compose himself as B.A. came forward. B.A. didn't know a man so tan could turn that shade of gray. Face made a hesitant effort to reach for Hannibal. His entire hand shook.

He couldn't do it. He got within several inches of Hannibal's body, then jerked away again. He looked up at B.A. imploringly, his blue eyes made brighter by the tears filling them.

"I can't—oh _god,_ B.A.—_I can't—"_

"Help Murdock," B.A. told him. He felt detached, as if a part of him had drifted away and was looking down on the scene. "I'll see to Hannibal."

Face gave a quick, grateful nod and tried to take Murdock instead.

It caused another round of screeching.

"Hannibal set it off! I don't know how—"

None of them knew, since they'd all walked that hallway multiple times before.

"—he turned and looked at me to say something . . . then . . . then . . ."

Face pried his fingers off Hannibal and began pulling him up and away.

" . . . then the explosion! I couldn't breathe, the air was on fire—Hannibal fell back and I grabbed him—"

That would explain the relative lack of injury to Murdock; Hannibal shielded him from the blast.

"—I tried to save him, Face!" Murdock continued, growing more agitated. His tears had continued, and snot flowed out of his nose. "I tried! He was still alive, he tried to tell me something—"

Face made a choked noise in his throat and turned a shade paler.

B.A. didn't doubt the Colonel had survived the initial first moments. Murdock sported a partial bloody handprint on his cheek and neck that was too small to be his own. Hannibal had been conscious at first. But with arteries in his legs severed . . . he would have gone into shock and bled out within minutes.

"—I couldn't hear what he said! I couldn't hear what he said!"

"Face, you gotta get him out of here!" B.A. commanded.

But Face seemed mostly rooted to his spot, unable to look away as B.A. attempted to gather up Hannibal.

"Goddamn it Lieutenant!" the black man roared. _"Get him out of here!"_

Face jumped and didn't question the order. He tried to take Murdock's elbow—

Murdock, who'd also been transfixed on Hannibal's body even through his rambling explanation, immediately took a swing at Face. Only involuntary reaction prevented Face from getting punched.

"Don't touch me!" screamed Murdock, his voice cracking. "Don't you see? You can't touch me! Conquest is dead! I couldn't save him! I facilitated his death! I AM DEATH!"


	4. Chapter 4

That was the beginning of the end. Face managed to herd Murdock through the wreckage without touching him. He settled him in the front passenger seat of the van, but when B.A. came lurching towards the vehicle with Hannibal in his arms, he found Face making Murdock move to the back.

Face tried to formulate a reason for it. Tried to falter through an explanation, tried to lie about why he couldn't be in the back, about why he wasn't able to sit closest to Hannibal. Seeing the undeniable pain in the conman's eyes, however, B.A. shushed him with a lump in his throat and made Murdock open the rear doors.

He carefully eased Hannibal's body into the back. He'd never be able to wash away the feeling of carrying an impossibly heavy, completely limp man. His arms would always remember it. Some times at night he still woke up with the sensation, and it always made him turn on the light to make sure it wasn't real.

Face was able to hold himself together with a very thin thread until they pulled into the parking lot of the crematory where Hannibal had purchased pre-paid services. The boss always had a plan, even if the outcome was unthinkable.

Then Face lost it; he left the van and stood at the rear doors, kicking and weeping and begging no one in particular that this couldn't be happening, that this was a mistake, that this wasn't fair and he wasn't going to put up with it. Hannibal, you get up right now! This isn't funny anymore! _Goddamn it, Hannibal!_

B.A. worried he'd go so far as to harm himself; then he felt ashamed he was more upset that there would be more bloodstains to clean out of his van than he was about whether or not Face would damage his most valuable commodity. He hid his selfish thoughts behind a wall of tears. It didn't take much for him to work into crying either.

Murdock stood next to Face—not touching him, B.A. noticed, there was no arm over the shoulders, no comforting hug—as B.A. went to get help. The pilot was murmuring to his friend. Face didn't seem to hear and didn't respond verbally to whatever comfort he might be getting, but he did eventually calm down enough to stop demanding Hannibal stop pretending.

When it was all said and done, their Colonel, the man with the plan, was given to them in a tin; they weren't paid for the job because the evidence was blown away; and Murdock had latched onto the delusion that he and his teammates were the Four Horsemen.

Their Apocalypse had come.


	5. Chapter 5

B.A. and Murdock were always brothers to Face, but Hannibal had been his father figure. He had given him purpose and directed his drive, lectured him and took care of him. With that stability gone, Face spiraled downward into a pit of no return.

Several times he went missing for days, even weeks. He always showed up again eventually, usually more wasted than when he left. He routinely fought in bars and once B.A. had to put up bail for him after a particularly bad night.

B.A. figured he wasn't turned over to the MPs because no one recognized the scraggly haired man with varying degrees of healing bruises as one Lt. Templeton Peck, wanted fugitive from the US Army.

Murdock held fast to his fantasy. B.A. was dubbed War, and Face Famine; Murdock insisted due to his involvement of Hannibal's/Conquest's demise he was the Rider of the Pale Horse, Death personified. He refused to let either of the others touch him, for fear of destroying them too.

Even when Face asked or pleaded or attempted to fall asleep in the same bed as Murdock—actually, B.A. thought it was a good idea, it would comfort them both—the pilot steadfastly refused. He would coldly leave the room while the conman would break down into to sobs, wanting just a little of the easy camaraderie they once shared.

They couldn't take their standard jobs, and eventually, B.A. found work as a mechanic. It wasn't great, but it was steady money.

When Face got sick, B.A. couldn't handle everything anymore. Without Face able to con Murdock's medications so easily, there wasn't much he could do. Murdock had relapses that included self-mutilation and screaming fits.

Even though the majority of their relationship was based on irritation and the words "crazy fool", it cut B.A. deeply in his soul to have to check Murdock into the psychiatric ward and go home without him. Murdock had gone meekly. He may not have completely understood that this time there would be no daredevil Colonel willing to take a chance on him, but he understood it was best to be separated from the other Horsemen.

B.A. continued to care for Face as long as he was capable. Face apologized several hundred times that he wasn't more careful, that he knew he should have used protection each and every time, and that he was so sorry B.A. had to deal with the aftermath of his depravities.

He was shushed several hundred times, and helped to take his antiviral medications. They both knew nothing could cure him, but hoped to keep the symptoms and the inevitable end at bay as long as possible.

Eventually his weight loss was too much, and he couldn't keep the pills down either. With Face's acceptance, B.A. found and moved him to a facility more equipped to help.


	6. Chapter 6

B.A. stopped the van in front of the hospice center. Murdock looked up at the building, more of a house than a clinic, and mouthed the words from the sign in front as he read them.

"Face is waiting for us, Murdock. You ready?"

His hand inched towards his mouth again, but suddenly Murdock stopped the movement and nodded sharply.

"Yes. I'm ready."

B.A. led the way in. That same vomitous hospital smell assaulted his nostrils again. The nurse's assistant greeted him as he came in the door, and he quietly introduced Murdock to her.

She smiled at Murdock, and told him that Face—Temp—had been asking for him.

Murdock had a hard time meeting her eyes, but nodded.

They went back the hallway to Face's room.

It was horribly prophetic, B.A. thought to himself, that Murdock had christened him Famine.

Face had lost so much weight he couldn't stand any longer. The deep tan he'd cultivated for most of his adult life had faded to pale, lightly freckled skin. His frame was mostly angles and sharp points, but his eyes were still as azure as an open sky straight overhead and remarkably, he hadn't lost much hair. God's joke, apparently.

"Murdock!" he cried gladly as the pilot shuffled in.

Murdock glanced at B.A. for some type of encouragement; B.A. nodded and whispered,

"Faceman. _Not_ Famine."

Murdock gave him a look like he was an idiot—which made B.A. happier than he'd ever admit—and hurried to the bedside.

Face held out a hand and Murdock watched it warily.

"It's okay, man," B.A. told him, reading Murdock's racing mind that he was still vexed about touching. "You took my hand in the car, didn't ya? I'm still here."

With the assurance, Murdock took Face's hand in both of his, and they both started talking at the same time.

B.A. stepped out of the room to allow them some privacy.

He followed the hallway through the house and out into the back yard. They had a garden there, with benches, and he found one to rest on. His throat, like so often now, ached. There were trees and birds and flowers all around him, but everything was hazy, as if he looked at the place from behind a sheer curtain. He didn't know what to do with his hands.

He didn't keep track of how long he'd sat on the cold concrete bench. When he made his way back inside, he found that Murdock had pushed passed his phobia of touching any of them and was lying on the bed, pressed up against Face.

Face was asleep. Murdock rhythmically brushed his fingers through his friend's hair. B.A. didn't know the last time he'd seen Face look so at ease.

Or Murdock either, he realized.

Although visiting hours here were relaxed, B.A. knew that soon the nurses would be coming through with pain medications and Face would be truly out for the night. He told Murdock that in a hushed voice, and suggested they should probably go.

He received a nod, and Murdock eased himself off the bed. Face murmured a bit and Murdock pressed a kiss to his forehead. Face settled, and they left quietly.

Back in the van Murdock sat dully. Before he started the vehicle, B.A. asked,

"You okay?"

He didn't get much of a response at first.

"Life isn't very nice," Murdock finally muttered.

No, B.A. agreed silently.

"Bossman's gone. Face'll be gone soon."

Yes.

B.A. cleared his throat. "It's not your fault."

Murdock shook his head; he hadn't needed reassurance. "I know. I just don't know what to do."

"Not much to do, unfortunately."

"You'll stay, won't you Bosco?" he asked suddenly, desperately. "You won't . . . forget, or anything? I know I have problems, and sometimes I can't remember, but you can, right? You'll always remember Hannibal and Face and me, and help me remember?"

The constant ache in his throat tightened into a choke hold. "'Course I will, fool."

Murdock let out a sob of relief. The sound punctured through B.A., and he left the driver's seat to rush to the passenger door, opening it and pulling Murdock into an iron-armed hug as both men wept.

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><p><em>fin.<em>

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><p><em>Thanks to all who stuck through this dystopian little piece. WriterMonkey0626, silverwolfneko-chan, rawriloveyou, QueenOfAwesomeness, danang1970 ... you all rock, and make my world go round.<em>


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